


False Start

by Verayne



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: AU, I think this counts as their version of romcom, M/M, Memory Loss, Mystery PoV, more questionable use of regeneration abilities, the obscurity of the pronouns killed me in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25228282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verayne/pseuds/Verayne
Summary: After one of their confrontations goes too far and they regenerate at the same moment, turns out that getting hit with two blasts of regeneration sickness can have some interesting side effects. They know they're the Doctor and the Master, they're just... not entirely sure which one of them is which. But it's fine. It's completely fine. They only have to survive an alien invasion with no memories and a minor tendency to collapse every now and then. No problem whatsoever. (TenSimm AU)
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/The Master (Simm), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 156





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A while back I was [part of a tumblr thread discussing this idea](https://veraynes-blog.tumblr.com/post/621518336306610176/ooh-it-would-definitely-be-an-interesting-little), and I finally got around to writing something about it! 
> 
> Something of a writing experiment for me, so hopefully it works! No real warnings beyond a bit of lightly-described violence in the second chapter.

* * *

He wakes up because the TARDIS is tilting and the artificial gravity is wrong and he goes sliding across the floor into one of the consoles. The breath goes out of him as his back hits the metal and he's too stunned to figure out immediately what's happening. The ship shakes around him, screaming mechanical protest, and tips in another direction so he starts to fall again. He grabs at the edge of the console, holding on desperately as the TARDIS falls out of the sky.

Alarms and warning lights blare through the control room, disorientating. There's another judder, a creak, and he hears someone else make a startled sound as they suddenly tumble past the central column and go skidding across the upended floor. They flail a bit as the row of consoles come into reach, and then they're clinging on right next to him, both of them exchanging wide-eyed, panicked looks of incomprehension as they try to figure out what's happening, why they're here, and - belatedly - _who_ exactly they are.

Oh. Well that's a disturbing revelation.

Before he can dwell, the TARDIS _slams_ into something with a crash. Sparks fly from the central column and something explodes in a flash of broken glass and metal. The ship tilts again and he barely manages to hold on, scrambling with his feet at the metal grating of the now nearly vertical floor. The man holding on next to him isn't as quick to react, lets out a frightened sound as he looks down at the drop opening up below them, his grip starting to slip from the console.

Instinctively, he reaches out and grabs for him, clutches at his sleeve. It's a mistake. The other Time Lord immediately clings back, abandoning the console in favour of clawing at him instead, suddenly wrapped round his waist as he tries to keep himself from falling. The strain of the extra weight immediately starts to pull him down too and he grits his teeth against it, a growl building in his chest. His foot slips from where he's got it lodged in the grating and they both let out yelps of panic as they jolt downwards. His fingers are slipping, and he winces as he braces himself for the inevitable painful fall across the control room.

They drop - and the floor bucks up beneath them like a punch in the stomach as the TARDIS flips over yet again. He grunts, goes tumbling across the grating until he hits a railing, holds onto that instead. The ship shudders and rocks a final few times - and then mercifully goes still.

He doesn't trust it at first, stays where he's found himself curled round the metal barrier, waiting to see if it throws him again. Nothing moves, but the shriek of alarms and the snap and hiss of damaged machinery is deafening. Wary, he sits upright, narrowing his eyes against the sting of smoke. He has to leave, let the TARDIS repair itself before it kills him. He hopes vaguely that it's landed somewhere hospitable.

The other Time Lord is unconscious, he sees, lying unmoving on the metal grating a little distance away. Blurrily, he looks around at the damage, trying to get his bearings. He notices, of all things, the sonic screwdriver on the floor by the central column and crawls his way towards it, hastily shoving it into a pocket before he drags himself upright, horrified by the sick, dizzy feeling that promptly sends him tipping sideways. He manages to catch himself on the handrail, then clumsily points himself in the direction of the door, coughing in the rising smoke coming from the navigation panel. He means to step over the sprawled figure on the floor, but his foot catches on a shoulder and he goes toppling like a stack of bricks, hits the walkway without a single shred of dignity. It should probably hurt more than it does, but he realises the golden light of regeneration energy is still playing across his skin, burning off the bruises before they even start to form.

The other Time Lord stirs at the inadvertent kick, sits up in a panic. He immediately starts coughing in the toxic air as well, pressing his sleeve over his mouth and squinting round. "Go, go," he instructs, muffled and impatient as he gestures at the door.

They half crawl, half stagger their way off the ship, tumbling out into fresh, chill air. Immediately, the TARDIS door slams and locks behind them, cutting off the screech of alarms from inside.

He sits stunned in the relative quiet that follows, the ground damp under his hands, his head swimming. He feels nauseas. He feels like the world is still tilting. The regeneration sickness is worse than he can ever remember it being - possibly, he supposes wryly as he looks up at his unexpected company, because they each just got hit with two blasts of it in close proximity.

The other Time Lord catches him staring and warily straightens from where he'd been slumped against the TARDIS door. They both keep looking, wordless, studying each other in careful silence as they search for a sign of something familiar, some indication of who they are. He doesn't recognise the face looking back at him - but that's to be expected, it's new. What strikes him as impossible is that he's not immediately clear on the identity behind it.

"Are you...?" The other Time Lord pauses, evidently struggling to articulate the question they both want to ask. "Do you know...? I mean, can you remember what... which one..." He stops again, obviously frustrated, and then squares his shoulders. "Which one of us are you?"

Brushing himself off as he clambers to his feet, he opens his mouth to offer a sharp response, but it dies in his throat as it hits home again that he really doesn't know the answer. 'They' as an entity are the Doctor and the Master. He knows that much. He remembers the titles and the history, he knows who those people are, that they were together when they regenerated, he just... doesn't know which one he is, exactly.

The thought is mystifying, incomprehensible. How can he not know? He runs a quick scan through what memories he can summon up, but the recollection is patchy at best, and everything he finds feels distant and muted, like he's watching a film full of other people. He can't connect to any of it, can't feel the emotions he knows should be attached. Thinking about what he knows of the Master's history feels exactly as clinical as thinking about what he knows of the Doctor's, and he can't pick out anything in the mess that would identify him as one or the other. It's astonishing to realise how twisted up their histories are, that in their state of disorientation they're indistinguishable.

"Not sure," he says shortly, glaring at the tarmac ground.

The other Time Lord drags a hand down over his mouth, wincing slightly. "Ah. Okay. Well that's a problem."

They'd been fighting, he remembers vaguely. Actually grappling in the TARDIS, one of them trying to flee and the other clinging for dear life trying to stop him. He thinks for a second he's made progress, because the Doctor's always the one that's running, so that must be him. But he can't quite reconcile the Master with 'clinging' so that doesn't make sense either, and he frowns as he swiftly arrives back at square one.

He thinks they might have killed each other. Finally managed it, in perfect sync. Or maybe one killed the other and got caught by the regeneration blast that followed, he's not clear on the details. Only that they've both woken up with unfamiliar faces, memories in disarray, and without the anchor of someone else's certainty to build themselves around. It's like running headlong into a wall, and he finds himself scrabbling for the edges of the mental block, trying to get round it, get past it, to where he knows the details of himself are hidden.

The other Time Lord steps past him, looking round at where they are. He turns to look as well. It's night, raining faintly, and they're in the middle of nowhere. Well. An empty car park, actually, of all places. Earth, twenty first century, from the familiar smell of the atmosphere. (He's been here enough to recognise it easily, then. A sign he's the Doctor?)

"Earth," the other man says at the exact same moment, ruining that hunch. "Do you remember why we were here?"

"No."

They both turn back to regard the TARDIS morosely. There's white smoke seeping out from around the edges of the door now, the smell of burning circuitry, and a warning light slowly flashes atop the blue police box.

Beside him, the other Time Lord folds his arms. "I assume it's going to be a while repairing?"

He glances over, slightly taken aback. Is he supposed to know? Is it... his TARDIS? Affecting confidence, he shrugs. "Probably. We wrecked it with two regenerations in there."

"So... We just wait around here until it's done?"

His face screws up, faintly incredulous. "You do realise we most likely just murdered each other, right? And you want to... what, _hang out_?"

"We didn't ' _murder each other_ '," the man snaps sceptically, rolling his eyes. He's quiet for a second, then his voice drops to a sarcastic undertone. "... _One_ of us probably killed the other, yeah, and we both know who that was."

"No we don't!" he bites back, infuriated. "That's the problem!"

The other shows his teeth in annoyance, reaching up to tug at his hair. "This is ridiculous! How can we not know?! Don't you - I don't know - _feel_ more like one than the other?"

He sneers. "Am I feeling recklessly homicidal or the burning need to save puppies and kittens with heroic flare? _No_. Are you?!"

"...No."

He does, however, feel suddenly sick to his stomach as another wave of vertigo comes over him. He staggers slightly, bending at the waist and bracing his hands on his knees, convinced he's about to throw up. From his spot a few feet away, the other Time Lord watches without comment, unimpressed and standoffish.

"No, I'm fine, really," he forces out through gritted teeth. "Don't trouble yourself."

"I might not know which of us is which, but either way you just killed me. Sorry if I'm not rushing to help."

"That's petty. You're petty now."

"Doesn't narrow it down much."

He blows out a breath as he straightens, trying to shake it off. As he does, he suddenly remembers his discovery and extracts the sonic screwdriver from his pocket, frowning as he turns it over in his hands.

The other man looks across at him sharply, points as though in accusation. "The Doctor."

"...Not necessarily," he admits. "Found it on the way out."

The other reaches for it curiously - and he automatically snatches it out of reach.

"Get off. Finders keepers."

An annoyed sigh, and the other Time Lord relinquishes the attempt with yet another roll of his eyes, instead casting a searching glance out over the dimly lit car park. "We should get inside somewhere while we wait."

Maybe it's the weakness brought on by regeneration sickness, but he is cold actually, and the damp settling into his clothing isn't helping. After a moment's tense hesitation, he nods, tucking the sonic back into a pocket.

They start walking towards the light of nearby streets, moving with the odd, halting gait of two people trying to learn new bodies. It's made even stranger by the surreal, distinctly temporary nature of the truce between them, held in place purely by the fact that they don't remember who is supposed to hate who, and for what reasons.

It occurs to him that one of them is in far more danger here than the other. After all, one of them's a pacifist, and the other is the Master. He glances over surreptitiously, catching the other man scanning the area as they walk, eyes sharp and quick and restless. It suddenly feels like something of a gamble. There's a hidden springtrap in one of them, and they're currently in no condition to figure out which. He tries to decide if he feels much like a pacifist.

"Which way?"

He shrugs as they approach the edge of the car park, too lost in his own musings to have strong feelings one way or another about where they go, so he follows without comment when the other man picks a direction and sets off. They edge round the outside perimeter of the carpark and then across to a street lined with small shops. For the most part they're all closed, and he realises they're in the early hours of the morning. So they trail along the street somewhat aimlessly, hands in pockets, peering into windows with idle interest as they pass.

He's the first to see the people standing in the middle of the road, his eyes drawn to their silhouettes against the orange glow of streetlamps. He puts a hand out, touches the other man's arm with the back of his knuckles to get his attention. Three figures stand shoulder to shoulder just ahead of them. They're not moving, and both Time Lords stop walking as they realise they're being watched intently. He squints, noting the metallic masks, the odd militant stance, and most importantly the weapons at their sides. Not human.

"Company," he observes dryly.

"Think they're here for us, or we were here for them?" the other Time Lord muses curiously, glancing at him with raised eyebrow.

"Does it matter, they're -"

In unison, the three masked aliens raise guns. It's so quick and perfect a motion is seems almost mechanical, and he knows straight away that they're not going to hesitate. The other man is still looking at him, not paying enough attention, and he wants to yell at him to get out of the way but it's too fast and - _stupid_. Without thinking, he shoves into him, throws his shoulder against his side to send them both crashing sideways. They go tumbling down behind a parked car as the beams of energy weapons fly by overhead. The other Time Lord grunts discomfort as his weight lands clumsily on top of him, breath gusting past his ear. There's a blast, a rush of air as fire catches, and a car alarm starts screeching somewhere past them.

They scramble tighter against the shelter of the car they've found themselves behind, backs pressed to the tires. He swears under his breath, looking around as he tries to find an escape route, a way of defending himself, anything. There's nothing he can see, and if they decide to come closer they're completely vulnerable here. It was careless, being caught short like this, he should have known to expect something. Neither one of them can ever set foot on this bloody planet without _someone_ wanting to kill one or both of them.

He remembers the sonic again and snatches it from his pocket. It's the only thing of any use they've got on them, insufficient as it seems right now. He exchanges a quick glance with the other Time Lord, who nods encouragement, eyebrows up expectantly. He hisses a breath, tension rising as every instinct in him demands self-preservation over heroics, but unfortunately he's the one holding the screwdriver. Another round of energy blasts sear past overhead, one of them skimming off the bonnet of the car with a high-pitched whine, making him duck lower. He grits his teeth, bracing himself, and then surges up enough to take a decent shot with the sonic.

They're nowhere to be seen.

He goes still, furiously scanning the length of the quiet street, squinting suspiciously into the pools of shadow between lamplights. Nothing moves. Next to him, the other Time Lord slowly leans down to peer under the car towards where the aliens had been standing.

"Gone," he comments, glancing up at him.

He lets out a heavy breath, dropping back into a sitting position on the ground and tipping his head back against the metal. As the short surge of adrenaline starts to fade, the disorientation of regeneration sickness takes him again and he has to put both hands on the wet tarmac like he's clinging to the planet.

"...Thanks."

He rolls his head to look over. It's the second time since they woke up that he's made the attempt to save the other man, and he feels them both realise it in the same moment. Realise the implications of it.

"You _are_ the Doctor, then," the other Time Lord says quietly, dark eyes moving over his face.

"Looks like," he mutters in agreement, wary of the revelation. He'd been half-expecting some lightning strike of inspiration and purpose and identity, upon determining who he was again. But nothing feels very different, really. It doesn't unlock any secret cache of memories, doesn't make him feel anymore grounded. He supposes, at the very least, he knows what to expect from both of them now.

Unbidden, he thinks again about which one of them is in more danger from the other, aware of a vague sinking sensation in his stomach. Damn.

"Did you recognise them?" he asks as he gets up, hoping to distract the other Time Lord from the same thought process.

The Master rises as well, moving to peer over the top of the car at where the three aliens had been standing. He frowns thoughtfully. "Looked like Sycorax, maybe?"

The Doctor shrugs. Most of the Ishta System species look one and the same to him, really. "Alright, well why are they here? Tracking one of us?"

"Looked like scouts. Pilot fish. Probably smelled the regeneration coming off us and came looking. Think about it, they could run their batteries on us for centuries with the energy we're putting out at the moment."

He scowls. "Energy hunters. Means there'll be more after them, doesn't it?" And if they come after them here, it means they've inadvertently just brought down yet another predatory, warfaring species on Earth. "We should... do something about that, right?"

"Like what?" the other Time Lord asks, resting his arms on top of the car and propping his chin there. He wrinkles his nose slightly. "Sensible thing would be to just leave, I'd have thought."

They stare at each other dubiously. It still feels somewhat like they're both following a script. He knows what he's _supposed_ to say, but there's none of the customary emotion or moral urgency he thinks should be attached to the argument. So he raises his eyebrows, and goes pragmatic instead. "Can't leave until the TARDIS is done repairing. We’re stuck here, and if your pilot fish liked what they saw there'll be more of them coming for us."

The Master tilts his head in concession. "Point. Alright, what exactly do you want to do?"

The Doctor hesitates. He wasn't actually expecting such immediate agreement, and he's got no follow-up suggestions ready. "Well."

The other man loses interest while he's still trying to think of his next point, standing straight and turning to regard the damage done by the Sycorax weapons. One of the cars that got struck by a shot has caught fire inside, flames licking up the fabric seats and smoke starting to billow from the cracked windows, alarm blaring. There'll be humans coming to investigate the damage within minutes, and if they don't want to be caught by some awkward questions then they really need to make themselves scarce while he decides what to do next.

"Come on."

Glancing around the street one last time to make sure there's no other nasty surprises, he resumes walking the way they'd been going, trying to remember if he knows the area or not. It takes him a few paces to realise the Master still hasn't moved himself.

"Hey! We need to go."

But the other Time Lord remains transfixed, stalled beside the burning car. He's drifted a bit closer and seems caught staring at it, unmoving, dark eyes wide and reflecting the bright, wavering light of flames. Impatient, the Doctor flicks his gaze skyward as he doubles back, reaching to grab at him. They don't have time for this, they need to move. But as he gets near, he sees the expression the other man is wearing and hesitates.

"What's wrong?"

The Master still doesn't move, can't seem to look away from the fire starting to curl round the frame of the car. His profile is illuminated gold as he blinks slowly, swallowing. "No, nothing. I just... I remember something."

The Doctor stops as well, then. He studies the man's profile, curious despite himself. The sound of the city fades as his attention narrows, and he finds himself edging closer, tilting his head as he tries to determine what it is he's watching here. "Remember what?"

The other Time Lord opens his mouth, but for a few seconds no words come out. He clears his throat, frowns slightly, looking almost baffled as he speaks. "The whole planet was burning. Gallifrey. At the end of the War, I was there."

The Doctor tries to remember if he was as well, but there's nothing there when he reaches for the information. His gaze drifts towards the flames, trying to see what it is the Master is seeing, the memories of destruction, but nothing triggers. He's almost jealous. "What was it like?"

"Chaos. Hell."

The Doctor nods, desperately trying to picture it. His hearts are speeding unaccountably in his chest, and he can't decide if it's from remembered fear or exhilaration. "What did you do?"

The Master turns to face him. For just a second he still looks lost, bewildered by the recollection. Then he blinks, and his expression suddenly goes hard at the edges, guarded. He tilts his head back so he's peering defiantly down his nose. "I ended it."

He doesn't follow, at first. "Gallifrey -"

"Is gone. They're all gone. You and me are the last."

They stare at each other in silence. The Doctor blinks, trying to process the information. He can't comprehend it properly yet, can't immediately fit it into his understanding of the universe.

"...What do you mean it's 'gone'? How can it be gone?"

The Master considers him for a moment, and then steps closer. His height means he's looking down through lowered lashes, gaze heavy and cold. "I mean it's _gone_. Destroyed. Daleks and Time Lords, all of them dead."

The Doctor draws a slow breath past his teeth, tasting smoke and ash in the air. He can't look away, fascinated and appalled, feeling heat flush through him in reaction. "You survived," he says slowly, like he's testing out the information.

The Master dips his chin down towards his chest, lip curling with something like anger. "No. I _won_."

The correction steals his breath for a second. He doesn't know what he's supposed to say, can't parse the adrenaline-shot of emotion that punches through him at the words.

He must fail to give the appropriate reaction, though, because the Master shakes his head once and steps past him without another word, heading off in the direction they'd been going. The Doctor turns to watch. He can feel his pulses thrumming in his wrists and throat, can't stop tapping out a nervous beat of four against the side of his leg.

He supposes, as revelations go, that at least it puts an end to any lingering uncertainty about which of them is which.

* * *

For lack of any better ideas, they duck into an all-night coffee shop they come across, sitting at a table by the window so they can keep watch on the street outside.

"So go on," the Master says expectantly, as soon as they're settled. He’s breezed past any previous mention of Gallifrey, refuses to be drawn on the subject again, and is back to amiable practicality. "You're the one with all the friends on this planet, put them to use. They must have some defences, surely."

The Doctor frowns down at his coffee, vague memories of UNIT drifting through his head. But that was decades before this time period on Earth, and try as he might he can't locate information about how to reach them now, or whether he's even still in contact with the organisation. He doesn't remember the humans he knows he travelled with either, or where they might be right now.

He shakes his head, slumping back in momentary defeat. "If I do, I don't know who they are."

The Master plants his elbows on the table, roughly rubbing his eyes in frustration. " _Agh_ , how long is this going to last?! We're useless like this. Have you ever had regeneration sickness this bad before?"

He aims a withering glare across the table, holds out his arms incredulously. "How the fuck would I _know_?"

The other man snorts involuntary laughter, sliding his hands down over his mouth like he can conceal a smile, eyes crinkling up pleasantly at the corners. The Doctor looks quickly away, not liking the flutter of attraction that goes through him without warning.

"I'm starving," the Master announces, apropos of nothing, as he drums his palms against the tabletop. "Do you think they do chips here?"

They both scan round the empty cafe, chairs up on half the tables, and the waitress sitting tiredly behind the counter who's glaring at them in response to the overheard question.

"I'm thinking no."

"Assume I still like chips, anyway," he continues musing absently. "Always a toss up, isn't it? New body, new taste buds. Not sure what kind of man I am yet."

"I think we know the basics," he comments scathingly, arching a pointed eyebrow.

The other Time Lord settles back in his chair, arms folded over his chest. "See, you always have to get hostile. We were getting on fine for a minute, there."

He shifts uncomfortably, aware that it's true, but that it probably shouldn't be. He tries to summon up that cold, righteous disapproval he knows he usually feels for the Master, but he's - tired. Sick and disorientated. Not himself yet, and it's all too easy to buy in to the performative charm and creeping sense of familiarity the other man gives off. It's a fine, hazardous line they're walking in their current incomplete states, he suspects.

"I'm not hostile," he admits carefully, at length, realising he's being sincere only as he says it. Likely he'll feel different the moment he gets his memories back, but for now all he feels is... cautious.

"No?" The Master sits forward again with interest, mouth curling up at one corner. He looks far too slyly pleased by the knowledge, teeth showing as he grins with his tongue pressed against the point of one. "Finally going soft on me, Doctor?"

"Give it time," he warns blandly, averting his attention as he again feels the near physical pull of temptation. _Honestly_. He's old enough to know better by now, there's no excuse. _He's_ supposed to be the sensible one.

"So what kind of man are _you_ , this time?" the Master murmurs, voice gone low and curious, watching him intently. "By-the-book, again? The shining moral standard?"

He opens his mouth to offer a quip, but finds himself abruptly caught under the scrutiny, unable to look away. The words stall, unspoken. He closes his hands round his cooling coffee cup, swallows once. "Not likely. Was never that."

"Well, we agree on one thing, then." It lacks the bite he's expecting, sounding more like resignation.

Finally managing to break eye contact, he takes a drink - and immediately winces, putting it back down. "That's vile. Apparently I'm a man who doesn't like coffee anymore."

The Master gives a small smile, fleetingly entertained. "Sweet tooth," he guesses idly, returning his attention to the view from the window. "What do you want to do about our Sycorax friends, then?"

He's at least had a chance to think about it, this time. "Depending how far away their main ship is, scouts might not have had a chance to report back yet. We intercept them, no one finds out we're here, and we go on our merry way as soon as the TARDIS is done repairing."

"There's a lot of 'ifs' in that. Starting with the fact that, even if they haven't called home yet, we have no idea where they just blinked off to."

He reaches into his pocket, puts the sonic on the table in front of him. "Can't be too hard to find them, if they're close."

The other man regards him narrowly, unimpressed. "You really want me to go Sycorax-hunting with you. That's a thing we do now, is it?"

He lifts a shoulder. "Could be."

The Master drinks leisurely from his coffee, then settles back with one arm braced against the back of his chair. He frowns for a few long moments in thought, before it eventually morphs into a look of distaste. "No."

Annoyance flashes through him, though he's not sure why he's surprised. He snatches the sonic back from the table, already moving to stand - but the other Time Lord stops him.

"I say we force them to come to us."

The Doctor pauses, trying to determine if he's being mocked or humoured. "...Seriously?"

"Yeah, why not." His voice pitches up with casual amusement.

"We don't have a plan," he points out, feeling obligated. "Or weapons, defences, transport, anything."

"You don't even like weapons," the Master shoots back, grinning. "And since when have we ever had a plan?"

"You _love_ plans," he again feels the need to insist, then immediately wonders why he's arguing _against_ this. "Alright, how do you propose we get them to come to us?"

"They're tracking regeneration energy, right?" The other man makes a show of glancing around to check they’re not being watched, and then brings a fist up to cover his mouth. He coughs sharply, blows out, and they both watch the glimmer of golden light emerge on the breath. The Master smirks and nudges him beneath the table with his foot. "We're still regenerating."

"So?"

"So, let's give them something they can't resist."

He can't pretend something in him isn't intrigued, even though logically he knows it's the height of stupidity to be considering. He's not going to ask. He knows full well he shouldn't ask. Of the two of them, _he's_ meant to be the voice of reason.

"...How?"

The Master looks unbearably pleased by the question, both of them aware the curiosity means he's already won. "Got an idea."

"Oh? Going to share it?"

"I'll show you, if you're ready to go."

That brings them to something of a more mundane concern, as they both look down at the coffees they're holding, across at the bored waitress, then exchange blank stares with each other.

"No money," the Doctor admits quietly.

"Me neither."

"Think she's going to cause a scene about it?" He suddenly can't stand the thought of the girl twittering at him, he's still got a headache. So he spins the sonic screwdriver on the table and takes aim. A quick burst - and the espresso machine behind the counter abruptly goes haywire. It hisses gouts of steam, spurts coffee, and the timer alarm starts screeching continuously. The waitress gives a startled yelp, spinning towards it and dithering as she tries to figure out what to do to contain the mess.

They stand smoothly from the table while she's distracted, heading for the door. The Master bumps up against him as they go. "Thief," he accuses happily.

They step out into the chill air and make themselves scarce, walking briskly further down the street. He's starting to feel the slightest bit better, conscious of his surroundings at last, more in control of his own movements. He's also overly aware of the man walking too close at his side, like this is normal for them. The Master is finally taller than him in this regeneration, he realises; an unprecedented and unwelcome development. He scowls up at him when he's sure the other isn't looking, studying the new sharp features, the youth of him, trying to find something he recognises of the cold, sharp-tongued Time Lord he can see in his fractured memories.

It occurs to him that he doesn't even know what he looks like himself, glancing down at his hand to see smooth, white skin. He touches briefly at his face, but it doesn't tell him much so he stops to peer into one of the shop windows they pass, squinting critically at his reflection. He's regenerated young and strong as well, apparently, at odds with the aged finery he's still wearing from his previous body, all embroidered waistcoat and voluminous sleeves. Dark hair; dark eyes; a bit of stubble; shorter than he'd like. But overall not bad.

The Master sidles up next to him, hands in the pockets of his oversized leather jacket. His attention fixes on their reflections as well, and he spends a few moments messing with the wayward fall of his hair, swiping it up into messy tufts. Then his mouth slowly curls in a self-satisfied smile. "We look good."

The Doctor snorts, shooting a sidelong glance across at him. "Still vain, then."

"What? We do." He grins outright, cheeky and boyish, as though to demonstrate his very point. "Been a long time since we've looked anything like this." He actually _winks_ , dark eyes glittering with amusement.

The Doctor shakes his head, fighting not to respond to the infectious good humour. He's not supposed to be flirting. He's _definitely_ not supposed to be entertained or in any way charmed by the performance. This is the man who just got him killed (probably); the man with a list of atrocities to his name longer than either of them can accurately recall anymore - only the most recent of which what he's supposedly done to Gallifrey. The Doctor knows he's supposed to feel disgust, hatred, righteous anger. It's in him somewhere, he knows the script. But it must be locked behind the same mental block as the details of his recent memory, because he can't quite get to it right now.

He sets it aside for the moment, returning to the matter at hand as he regards the Master coolly. "What's this idea then?"

"Oh, that." And he's immediately radiating that slightly manic energy again, stepping in too close, and the Doctor frowns curiously as he looks down and sees he's holding a fork he must have taken from the cafe.

"What -"

The other Time Lord moves too quick for him to react properly, grabbing at his waistcoat to hold him in place. Light glances off the metal in his hand as he brings it upwards - and the Doctor shouts as the tines of the fork drive hard into his shoulder, below his collarbone. He staggers backwards under the force of it and his own shock, mildly horrified to see the utensil still protruding from him, blood seeping out across the white of his sleeve.

The Master promptly holds his hands up in a show of harmlessness - like the damage isn't already done - and hisses a sympathetic sound as he squints at the fork.

Stunned, the Doctor stares at it wordlessly for a few seconds. He reaches up, hesitates, then pulls it from his shoulder with a grunt. Tossing it carelessly across the pavement, he clamps a hand over the small wound and shoots a betrayed look at the other Time Lord. "-Fuck _me_ , what the _fuck_?!"

The Master steps forward again, having to follow him out into the middle of the street as he backs away. "They'll be looking for regeneration energy," he says, like it's obvious.

"So you _stabbed_ me?!" He shoves at him clumsily with his good arm, getting blood on the leather jacket.

The Master catches hold of his wrist at the contact, uses it to drag them closer together and get an arm round his back. "Trust me, it's a _really_ good idea." He doesn't hesitate in dipping his hand into the Doctor's waistcoat pocket and taking out the sonic screwdriver.

Still reeling with astonishment and the first dull throb of pain, the Doctor's too distracted looking down at himself to pay attention to the Master changing the settings of the device with easy familiarity. Golden energy is already starting to flicker over his skin, warm and tingling.

"Ready?"

He looks up, taken aback to find how close they are. The Master's eyes are bright and intent, darting between his own. He's pressed near enough that the Doctor can feel fast, exhilarated breath against his cheek, count the faint scatter of freckles the man's recently acquired. Adrenaline and endorphins and shock are rushing through him - and he blames the volatile chemical mix when he feels his gaze drop automatically to the other's mouth.

It doesn't escape notice, unfortunately. The Master tilts his head with a bite of his lip, brows knitting together wistfully. "Oh, just... hold that thought. Really." Then, without waiting for further response, he jabs the tip of the sonic into the wound in his shoulder and activates it.

Unstable regeneration energy immediately flares out around them both, amplified and agitated. He's not expecting it, the sudden dramatic drain of it, and he lets out a wavering sound he's not proud of as the power ruptures out of him. He feels himself go weak and staggers in surprise, but the Master's arm round him forces him to stay upright as he presses the screwdriver harder into his shoulder. It hurts.

"What - what the hell are you doing?"

"Making you irresistible." His dark eyes shine gold in the reflected light, hair fluttering wildly as heat from the spilling energy stirs the air around them. The Doctor wonders faintly if this is what he looked like in the last moments of Gallifrey.

Whatever setting he's using to amplify the regeneration ratchets up a notch, bright energy pouring out of him to lick across the pavement, the metal frames of cars, to arc and loop up higher into the air. It's costing him, he can feel that. He grits his teeth as he goes lightheaded, fists a hand in the Master's t-shirt as he braces to shove him away in self-defence.

But the Master curls soft fingers round the back of his neck and looks utterly earnest, of all things, as he says, "You can do this."

It's an all too obvious ploy at manipulation - but maybe because of that, it works. He bares his teeth in defiance, jaw clenched against the strain of restorative energy bleeding out of him. The fact is he _can_ take this, and more if needed. He certainly doesn't need to be patronised by the other Time Lord to know as much.

So he sets his stance and hangs grimly to the Master's collar to keep himself steady, holds furious eye contact as he purposely lets him inflict the damage. There's something hard and cold and determined in him that rises to meet the ruthlessness, as it always does, and together they lift their attention to watch his very lifeforce illuminate the night sky around them.

"Come on!" the Master shouts in invitation, wildly exuberant. "All the energy you could want, come and get it!"

He wants to snap that it most certainly is not an unlimited supply, actually, but it's currently all he can do just to stop himself snarling pain. He's aware that the other man is supporting at least half his weight now, and his vision is starting to dim round the edges. It's never once occurred to him to wonder if it's possible to die from prolonged regeneration, but of course the Master would find a way to pose the question. He's reaching the outer limits of his endurance, knows he's going to have to push the other Time Lord off him to save himself - when, at last, something happens.

It is not the reappearance of the pilot fish.

Instead, his eyes go wide as he feels the strange, artificial jolt somewhere behind his navel of gravity losing its hold on him, the unmistakable sensation of being caught in a transmat beam. The last thing he sees before the view of Earth disappears around him is the Master's equal look of shock - and then they're both gone, the London street falling dark and still and silent in their wake.


	2. Chapter 2

Transmat re-materialisation does not mix well with severe regeneration sickness, as it turns out. The moment they feel solid ground beneath their feet again, they succeed only in making something of a spectacle of themselves as the Master staggers away from him, wildly off balance, and the Doctor goes to his knees retching helplessly. For a few seconds he can't see, blackness closing in round the edges of his vision, and it takes all his concentration just to stay conscious. He curls forward, one hand reaching up to clutch at his shoulder where the shallow wound had been. It's healed under the onslaught of regeneration energy, painless now, but even the small gesture of checking feels slow and sluggish, the toll of the lost energy that's just been ripped out of him.

A hand fumbles clumsily but insistently at his shoulder, the other Time Lord trying to get his attention. He raises his head just enough to bark a scathing response - but freezes before the words make it to his mouth, as he finally takes note of where they are.

It's... an arena, of some kind. He leans back slowly and cranes his neck, following it up in disbelief. Tiers upon tiers of masked aliens stand like sentinels, peering down at the open space in which they've both appeared. Whatever hall they're in goes so high that he can't make out the ceiling for shadow, only rocky outcroppings draped with crude heraldry and fitted with the occasional metal installation. At first he squints in bemusement, wondering if they're underground somewhere - but no, there's the distinct thrum of an engine somewhere beneath them, and he realises they're onboard a geo-tech ship.

The Master nudges his shoulder again and he smacks him away impatiently as he clambers to his feet, straightening up warily under the watchful stare of their audience.

"Guess their ship wasn't very far away, after all." the other Time Lord comments, quietly. "Sorry. My mistake."

The Doctor shoots across a wordless glare.

In doing so, his attention is caught by a familiar shade of blue, and he turns in amazement to see the TARDIS parked conspicuously on the other side of the arena.

"Oi!" the Master protests indignantly next to him, as he sees the ship at the same moment. "That's -"

"Mine!" he finishes, squinting at the phonebox in bemusement. Their alien hosts must have picked it up in the same transmat beam that caught them, probably hoping to access the technology inside. Not that they'd be able to get past the TARDIS doors without an invitation, but the audacity of trying is insult enough.

His attention is drawn back by the approach of five of the masked, robed aliens striding out into the arena to join them. There's a rumble of anticipation and approval from the watching crowd above them before they go quiet again. The Master had been right, they are Sycorax, he sees now; he recognises the ceremonial dress of the Leader and his guards. The Leader's decked out in blades and bone trophies that advertise his conquests, extensive by Sycoraxic standards.

"Welcome, Time Lords."

The Doctor raises his eyebrows at the greeting. "An invitation wouldn't have gone amiss, if you wanted the honour of our company so badly."

Ignoring his sarcasm, the Sycorax glances between them. "Which of you is the one known as the Doctor?"

They both go still, carefully not looking at each other, and he resists the urge to wince. Of course. His reputation precedes him, apparently, though really he should hardly be surprised. He's made enemies throughout Time and the universe, it only stands to reason they'd come looking for him on occasion.

The Sycorax reaches up and takes hold of the insect-like mask he's wearing, unclasping it to reveal the skinless, bone-armoured face beneath. The Doctor wrinkles his nose, rather wishing he'd left it on instead. He passes the mask off to one of the guards, then turns to address them again.

"The Doctor!" he demands through sharpened teeth. "You have been brought because I would challenge the one known as champion of this planet!"

The Doctor breathes a sigh of exasperation as he finally understands what this is. Sycoraxic holy rites of combat, largely considered ludicrous and obsolete by the more technologically advanced races in the Systems, but still practiced regardless by the antiquated scavengers. His reputation establishes him as the protector of Earth, and by killing him not only would the Sycorax obtain his remaining regeneration energy, but by their rites of combat the Leader would inherit his claim on the planet as well, to do with as he pleased.

He senses the Master go tense beside him as he realises the same thing, and looks across. Their eyes meet wordlessly, and he tries to figure out what exactly the other Time Lord is thinking. The Master opens his mouth, hesitating briefly before he speaks - and the Doctor has just enough time to realise he doesn't want to hear himself renounced, even in this small truth.

"It's me," he says quickly, before the Master can do it for him. They keep looking at each other as he speaks, so he sees the other blink in surprise. "I'm the Doctor. You want me."

"Are you prepared to stand as champion?"

He breaks eye contact at last, turning a slightly bemused frown around the arena, up at the tiers of watching aliens, the messy constructs of bone and leather talismans which line the rock walls. It all feels vaguely surreal, like this is something that should be happening to someone else. If he's honest, he can't find any particular urge within him to protect Earth or the hapless human species occupying it. Whatever odd, persistent affection he _knows_ , logically, he must usually feel for them is buried along with his memories, and without it he's not sure he feels much like a champion worth the title.

But whether he wants it or not, he supposes he's made it his responsibility. He turns an unimpressed glare on the Leader, rolling his recently injured shoulder to make sure he can still move it freely.

"Fine."

The other Time Lord immediately grabs his wrist to stop him stepping forward, turning into him and lowering his voice. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" he hisses back.

"You can't. Not like this, not just you."

He huffs a hurt breath at the casual dismissal, supposing it's only fitting that the Master is willing to use him but not trust him. Not that it matters. So far they've done this according to the Master's whims, and look where that's gotten them. It's time he takes control back, gets them out of this. He just needs to convince the other man to follow his lead for _once_.

"Why not?" He flicks him a glance, lifting an eyebrow with only partial irony. "I'm the Doctor, remember. Just that brilliant."

"You're ridiculous, is what you are. At least let me be the -"

"What happened to 'I can do this'? And anyway. Was always better than you with a sword."

"Enough!" The Sycorax Leader makes another gesture, and two of his guards move to converge on the other Time Lord, dragging him backwards. Caught by surprise, he struggles against them but they take hold of both arms and pin them behind his back, already drawing swords.

"No!" The Doctor automatically moves to intervene but gets shoved back for his efforts. The Master shoots him a faintly panicked look - and in a flash of inspiration he turns swiftly back to the Leader. "Stop, he's part of it! Your rites of combat!"

The Sycorax immediately stays his guards with a raised hand, cocking his head in question. "You would stand as champion for Earth and Time Lords both?"

Sounds about right, he thinks wryly. It helps that the only remaining Time Lords he has to worry about are already standing in the room, at least. "Yes," he says, firmer in his conviction this time.

The Leader seems to think about it for a second, and then nods. "This is good. Then I shall have both prizes when I kill you." The crowd immediately snarls and stamps their approval from the stands.

Good luck with that, he thinks grimly. He has no intention of dying for the second time tonight. And finally, he thinks he can feel the first glimmers of real emotion he's been waiting for since he woke up: the righteous fury of the Doctor, remembered throughout the universe by those who've stood against him, rising steadily now in the face of challenge from this upstart scavenger race. That they would _dare_ to threaten Time Lords, dare to threaten this planet known to be under his claim, is intolerable.

So he has no qualms about holding out his hand to one of the guards at the Master's side, fixing him with a stare he knows is glacial. The guard pauses momentarily, and then slowly places the hilt of the sword he's holding into his waiting palm, arming him for the ceremonial combat. Then they pull the Master back towards the sidelines of the arena. He goes with another token struggle, but his eyes won't leave the Doctor, wide and intent. His expression is faintly incredulous, and the Doctor takes cold comfort in the fact that apparently neither of them can quite fathom how they ended up here.

Archaic weapon in hand, he finally forces himself to look away from the other Time Lord, dismissing him from his mind for the moment. He rolls his head on his shoulders as he returns his attention firmly to the Leader, watching as the Sycorax shrugs off the faded red cloak he'd been wearing to reveal battle-scarred armour beneath, handing off the stretch of fabric to the remainder of his guards and waving them from the field with a dismissive gesture. He draws his own sword - heavier looking than the blade the Doctor's now holding - with slow ceremony that he suspects is supposed to be intimidating.

"We fight to the death," the Sycorax declares, guttural voice raised for the benefit of their bloodthirsty audience. "For the right to this planet."

He shifts the hefty weight of the sword in his palm, swinging it underhand to get a feel for the balance. It's not ideal, heavier than he's comfortable with. "Fine with me."

The alien sneers. "When I win, I shall bleed that leaking energy from you both and your deaths will fuel the Sycorax for _centuries_. We will use it to take this planet and a hundred more after it."

It's disconcertingly possible, if they were to actually succeed in siphoning off the regeneration energy of two adult Time Lords. The Leader begins to circle round him and he refocuses his attention on the more immediate threat, narrowing his eyes as he looks for an opening.

The Sycorax takes a first swipe at him and he blocks it, surprised by the force behind the blow that vibrates through the bones of him. He makes the mistake of backing up as step as he tries to recover and the Leader instantly presses forward, keeping him retreating with swing after heavy swing of his sword. The Doctor manages to hurriedly meet each one, but with a slow sense of dread he realises he's at a broad disadvantage in terms of speed, strength and skill. He knows immediately that he's underestimated his warrior opponent - or perhaps the severity of his own weakened state. He likes to think he'd be putting on a better show if he hadn't just pushed himself past the limits of regeneration, but as it stands, it's all he can do just to keep himself out of reach.

Desperately, he tries to remember how he'd once won fencing matches so often in years prior, feeling like he used to be distinctly better at it than this. He manages to bat the other's sword out of the way and throws his shoulder into the Leader's chest, knocking him back enough that he can take a two-handed swing.

The Sycorax barely falters, catching the blow crossways on his own blade. Metal scores against metal as the Sycorax forces his sword ever downwards, locking the guards of the weapons as he glares down at the shorter Time Lord. The Doctor grits his teeth as the blades inch closer to him, not strong enough to throw him off. He's debating whether he can successfully sidestep and dart away when the Leader's knee suddenly comes up into his stomach, hard enough that he wheezes and goes weak - and then the Sycorax's bony forehead slams into his in a vicious headbutt.

He sees stars as he topples backwards, just about clinging to consciousness. The ground rushes up to meet him and he grunts as the breath slams out of him completely, lies dazed for just a split second too long. The Leader is already looming over him, and he can't move fast enough to fend him off.

He sees it happen before he feels the pain. Watches in disbelief as the Sycorax's heavy blade slices down through his wrist in one savage chop. His own sword promptly goes clattering away, severed hand still firmly clasped around the hilt, and he can only stare after it with stunned, reeling horror.

The audience are on their feet around the arena, rumbling excitement as the Leader pulls back to strike again. Tucking his injured limb tight against his stomach, breathless with pain and shock, he rolls and scrambles inelegantly to get away as his opponent stabs down at him. He manages to hurl himself frantically backwards as the blade slams down between his legs, tip barely missing the inside of his thigh, and in panic he kicks out so that his foot connects with the front of the Sycorax's knee. The Leader snarls and stumbles, giving him opportunity to haul himself upright again. He keeps his remaining hand clamped tight around the bloodied stump of his wrist, teeth bared in fury.

"You are disarmed!" the Sycorax barks at him, as though he might not have noticed. "Stand and die with dignity."

"Not _yet_ ," he spits, dragging in a rough breath as he looks down at the injury. He's still within the first few hours of his regeneration, he should be able to heal - but he's expended so much energy already, he's suddenly not sure it's going to happen. Pain throbs through him as the merciful anesthesia of shock begins to fade, shredding his nerves and making it difficult to think. He casts a desperate look across the arena - meets the wide, dark eyes fixed on him imploringly. If he can't win this fight, the Sycorax will kill them both within the next few minutes, he understands. Take Earth, too, though that's not currently at the forefront of his concerns.

More importantly, the other Time Lord will have been right all along not to trust him to defend them.

The chant of the crowd drones around him, clearly calling for his death, but it's difficult to hear over the rising, rhythmic pulse of blood in his temples. He tips his head sharply, trying to shake it off, but he can't focus on anything else. It's the beat of a war-drum in his skull, demanding anger, violence. Demanding _survival_. And he has certainly survived worse than this before now, he knows by instinct, armed with little more than bitter determination and the will to defy those who'd see him dead. Why should it be any different now? He refuses to be undone by this... this arrogant relic of bygone times.

He closes his eyes as he listens to the furious beat of drums, finding the place inside himself that's cold and hard and certain. Memory isn't needed for this. Just the knowledge that he isn't done yet, that he _will not allow_ this.

Regeneration energy rises from some lingering source within him. It's the dregs of what he's got left - but it's enough. He feels the warmth of it spread along his limb, spill from the severed arteries of his wrist until the light coalesces there, rebuilding bone and muscle and skin and nails from the sheer force of his will. He gives a wild grin of triumph as he curls and stretches his restored fingers, turning his hand over one way and then the other like he's admiring his own work.

"Witchcraft!" the Leader hisses in accusation.

He almost laughs. "Time Lord, actually."

The Sycorax shakes his head, and then visibly rallies with a flash of temper. "Then I shall count how many parts of you I must cut off before you finally die."

He skips back a step as his opponent readies his weapon, looking round for what he can use to defend himself.

"Here!"

They both look over at the shout, just in time to see the other Time Lord lift the sonic screwdriver above his head and activate a brutal blast of sound. The Sycorax nearest to him flinch back in surprise and discomfort, and he uses the distraction to pull the sword from the belt of his remaining armed guard, immediately skimming the weapon hard across the stone floor.

He stamps down on the blade as it spins towards him, dropping to grab it and swiftly throwing himself backwards to avoid the infuriated stab from the Leader. Distantly, he can hear the forceful scuffle of the other Time Lord being tackled into submission and the screech of the sonic cuts off, but he can't afford to check what's happening as he deflects the heavy blows that hammer down on him, the Sycorax growing more desperate to kill him quickly.

But something's different, this time. Whether it's the restorative boost of the last of his regeneration energy, or the clarity of simply deciding he will not die like this, he's not sure. Either way, suddenly he feels fast, and dangerous, and perhaps even a little excited. He finds himself grinning nastily as his own sword gets its first taste of blood, swiping a shallow cut across the back of the Sycorax's arm. His opponent growls annoyance and comes back at him hard, but he's fast on his feet and already dodging away, his laughter mocking. It's _fun_.

He sees clearly the moment when the Sycorax commits himself, lifting the sword two-handed above his head. The blade comes arcing down towards him, a killing blow, easily. But he's so _alive_ , so incredibly _energised_ , it's like the world around him is moving slower than he is. There's a drumbeat pounding in his head, in his hearts, crashing through him like an imperative.

He slips sideways a few inches, feels the flat of the blade breeze past his cheek, down past his shoulder. It makes him blink. His own sword is already in motion, lifting over the top of its counterpart and slicing upwards. The quick, clean swipe barely stutters as metal meets unresisting flesh. He aims for the sweet spot just below the bony ridge of jaw, feels a breathless thrill of triumph as it cuts through.

Blood spatters hot across the front of his shirt, the side of his face. He can immediately smell the salt and iron of it, thick in the back of his throat and reeking of familiarity. For a stretched moment, the Leader doesn't seem to register quite what's happened, still trying to recover from overextending himself with his missed blow, to pull back and stand upright again. It looks like it takes him by surprise when he staggers, his free hand rising towards his opened throat. He coughs once, gurgling a sound that sends a crimson spill down the front of his armour.

Time resumes its typical flow as the Sycorax drops hard to one knee, grabbing at his throat like he can stem the bleeding. His eyes are wide and disbelieving within the bony ridges of his face, and his sword clatters as it hits the stone floor in surrender. He lifts his open hand like he's expecting belated mercy from the Time Lord.

But he understands, now, the mistake that's been made. He _knows_ it suddenly - knows _himself_. He can smell it on the metallic tang of blood in his nose, hear it in the vicious drumbeat that screams his victory.

He knows his _name_.

He is the Master, and he is not a man to give chances.

He raises the sword again and drives it under a plate of armour, through bone and muscle and cartilage. The Sycorax hacks out a wet breath, his hands closing around the blade sinking into his chest like he can stop its halting, inevitable slide as the Master leans his weight forward. He can feel the avid eyes of the audience on them, the weight of their shocked silence, but no one moves to interfere. It's too late, anyway. The Master stands straight, plants his foot on the Leader's breastplate and kicks, watching with grim satisfaction as he slides backwards off the sword again, already dead by the time he collapses.

The arena is silent. Nobody moves.

The point of his sword clangs loudly as he sets it against the floor.

His first look is toward the other Time Lord, and even from a distance he can see the slack surprise on his face at what he's just witnessed. Maybe the Doctor _is_ the better swordsman of the two of them, but the Master has ever been the more efficient killer, and he believes he's just demonstrated the distinction. He cocks his head, wondering if the other man has figured it out yet, their swapped places. From the wide-eyed, dawning look of horror he can see slowly appearing, he suspects so.

So he smiles across at him, deliberate and as sharp as he can make it, raising one eyebrow in query. The Doctor blinks, glances aside like he's thinking quickly, then back to him with a wary expression. He nods once in silent agreement: they can't afford to break performance for something as trivial as realising they're playing the wrong parts.

The Doctor frees himself from the guards still holding him with a jerk. They hesitate, then resignedly let him go. Straightening his jacket with a shrug, he spares a last glare, and then starts walking across the arena. It’s so quiet they can hear his footsteps. As he comes closer, he narrows his eyes slightly at the Master, expression unreadable as he draws to a halt in front of him.

"Well that was interesting," he whispers under his breath, barely audible.

"Is that what we're calling it," the Master mutters back.

They look around them, the Doctor peering curiously at the Sycorax Leader's dead body, the Master more occupied watching the numerous guards still surrounding them, wondering which will try to stop them if they move for the TARDIS.

The Doctor nudges him, keeping his voice low. "Do a speech."

He blinks, shoots him a sceptical glance. "...What."

"A speech. I always do a speech. Bit of warning mixed with levity, that kind of thing."

"Oh, for -" But he's close to snorting laughter, because this is easily the most ridiculous scenario they've put themselves in for centuries, it's _funny_ , and he can see on the Doctor's face that he knows it too. Dark eyes flash with barely concealed amusement as he watches the Master expectantly, daring him to play along until the end of the game. So he breathes out in exasperation, aware that he's being indulgent. "Fine."

He turns to address his disconcerted audience, idly swinging the sword up in a circular motion with a flick of his wrist. He supposes a conqueror's speech isn't entirely unfamiliar, although it's been a while. He raises his voice to be heard by the furthest reaches.

"This planet is _mine_ , by rites of combat. So are your lives and your ship, if I had any real urge to claim them. I just took them from your Leader." He points the sword at the dead Sycorax and lets the threat linger, looking pointedly from one tier of the arena to the next, before resting the blade over his shoulder with a performative sigh. "Still. That seems like far more time and effort than I find myself left with. So – and I can’t emphasise this part enough - provided I never lay eyes on you near me and mine again, consider this your lucky day and _leave_."

He's met with only more nonplussed silence.

"...That was your speech?" the Doctor murmurs next to him, incredulous.

"Shut up. Get in the TARDIS." He puts his hand on the small of the other man's back, shoving him ahead towards the ship. His own attention remains on the guards lingering nearest them, wary of any movement.

But apparently the rites of combat truly are sacrosanct, because they only bow their heads and allow them past.

They get the TARDIS door open and slip inside, quickly snapping it closed behind them so the shields engage. The Doctor blows out a slow breath as he falls back against the wood panel. After a moment's hesitation, for lack of anything else to do, the Master moves to join him so he's standing shoulder to shoulder with the other man. He casts a glance around the TARDIS interior, vaguely relieved to see it's repaired itself enough to let them back inside, at least. He's rather hoping it's capable of flying them out of here, too.

Next to him, the Doctor clears his throat, apparently at a loss for quite how to proceed now that the immediate crisis has passed. Eyebrows lifting, the Master taps the point of the sword against the walkway he's standing on, trying to think of something to say. It's a little awkward, he considers, realising they've essentially just spent the last hour or two doing shoddy impressions of each other.

"You think I'm a flirt," he ventures, finally.

There's a beat of silence. Then the Doctor looks across at him blankly. "What?"

"When you thought you were me, that entire time..." A smile gradually tugs at his mouth, and he turns a calculating glance on his friend. "You think I'm a massive flirt."

"I -" But he stalls helplessly as he seems to realise there's no good response. Either he was very much imitating the Master's perceived flirting or... or that was all him. Dumbfounded, the Doctor blinks a couple of times, and then quickly faces forward again. "Yeah, well. You. _You_... You think I'm heroic."

He scoffs. "Shut up."

"You do, you think I'm all brave and daring." The growing obnoxious grin is audible in his voice, even without looking, and his shoulder nudges into the Master's. "You think I'm 'brilliant'."

He closes his eyes in pained silence, mortification blooming in his chest. He really had said that, hadn't he? He knocks his head back against the TARDIS door with a dull thunk.

Then another memory flashes, and he shoots over a shocked glare. "You stabbed me!"

The Doctor's smile promptly drops and his eyes go wide, mouth falling open. "I - Oh. I - Sorry, I just thought it was something you'd do."

"Yes, but _you_ did it!" He touches his shoulder, the small bloodstained rip in his shirt. In his state of shock, he can't keep a stunned, incredulous gust of breath from escaping. "You _stabbed_ me with a _fork_ , you prat!"

"Well. Yeah. But it worked, didn't it?"

"Worked? You got us abducted by aliens and made me _fight to the death_ to get us out!"

"Which you _loved_ , don't even lie!" The corner of the Doctor's mouth twitches again, his amusement with the whole disaster clearly evident. He leans back more comfortably against the TARDIS door, crossing one ankle over the other like he's settling in, then slides an overly smug look across at him. "You realise you saved my life, right?"

"Didn't," he snaps automatically, too fast.

"Twice, actually. Three times? I lost count, to be honest."

"I saved myself. You were incidental."

"You don't want me dead," he practically sing-songs, and it's so infuriating that the Master wants to murder him now just to prove a point.

"Well I wouldn't have had to if you had any survival instinct to speak of," he settles for snapping, instead. "You make a terrible me."

The Doctor raises his eyebrows wryly. "I make a half-decent you, actually, and believe me, I don't know which of us is more unhappy about that..."

He snorts, shaking his head. The moment lingers as he tugs down his sleeve, using it to wipe at the light spatter of blood on his face. "Suppose it's not all bad,” he muses, idly. “Did just win Earth in a swordfight."

"Don't start."

The other Time Lord eventually pushes himself off the door, peering around the control room as he slowly makes his way along the walkway. "Think she'll just about fly. Ready to get out of here?"

He follows, feeling even more awkward at the civility. It was one thing when they didn't remember much of who they were, quite another knowing now exactly why they're supposed to hate each other. He's a little surprised the Doctor even let him in the TARDIS, actually, nevermind happily offering him a lift. This new regeneration of his is just full of surprises.

The Master stops in front of the central column, resting his hands on the panel, and squints across at the other man in consideration. He feels like he's glimpsed a new version of him that goes beyond aesthetic change during their temporary swap: the Doctor that exists freed from the obligations of his name. Not just cold and clever and the 'shining moral standard', but actually _fun_ again, daring and a bit mean. Or perhaps it's not a new development but old; closer to the Doctor that exists in his youngest memories, when they'd run together curious and half-feral.

And for the first time in centuries, temporarily stripped of his own rage, the Master hadn't hated him. Had maybe even liked him, just a bit. He'd thought that feeling long burned out of him.

The Doctor circles the panel, ostensibly checking for damage but radiating his own brand of restless discomfort. He keeps flicking wary glances across at the Master, presumably under the impression he's being subtle, lingering with some distance between them. The Master wonders if he's remembered what it is to feel the one in danger.

The Doctor wavers for a moment longer, and then, without even the decency of a lead-in, abruptly says, "I picked up your hand, by the way." Then, to the Master's great horror, he gingerly extracts the severed appendage in question from a pocket. "Can't go leaving bits of Time Lord lying about, it's only asking for trouble."

The Master curls his lip with distaste as he watches the other man set it atop a console, but he supposes he can only concede the point. He's relatively certain that at some point the insanity of the night has to start easing off.

At last, the Doctor moves to stand next to him, fiddling idly with one of the modified levers before also flattening his hands atop the panel. He taps one finger for a while, then seems to force himself still. The Master watches him, waiting to see what he'll do.

The Doctor’s always said that the first few hours after regeneration leave profound and lasting influences on the personality of the Time Lord that comes after. The Master's never much bought into the idea, always adamant he's not so easily swayed as his fickle counterpart. But the thought drifts through his mind now. Despite himself, he can't help but wonder just what influences have been at play on a Doctor who woke believing he was the Master. What an intriguing thought that is.

He pointedly dismisses any notion of the opposite.

"Master."

He lets his eyes fall closed as he finally gets to savour the sound of his correct name in the Doctor's new voice, the _rightness_ of it. Has to swallow the strength of feeling before he can speak. "Hm. I love it when you use my name."

There's a pause, and then he feels the first brush of contact over the back of his hand, a careful brush of fingertips against his knuckles. He looks down in surprise, sees the Doctor reaching past the too-long cuff of his sleeve to touch him.

The Master pulls his hand away automatically, curling it into a fist against his side. He makes the mistake of glancing up, inadvertently meets the cautious, hopeful gaze trained on him, and they go still like that.

They can't do this, he knows that. It doesn't even make sense to want it. There's too much gone before, too much poisonous history. He's been telling himself the same thing all night, they can't just _decide_ that everything is - is -

The thought stutters slowly to a halt, brought to a standstill by the recollection of a simple fact.

He is not the Doctor.

Incredible. That creeping morality really is insidious, isn't it? For a moment there, he'd almost gotten used to thinking in terms of 'should'. But he's not _actually_ the Doctor, and he doesn't have to do anything he's _supposed_ to anymore.

The thought is liberating, almost provocative. He turns it over in his mind, lets it readjust his mental settings. Then, making a pointed decision, he turns and steps into the other man's space. Curls his hands tight around sharp hipbones as he pushes him back against the control panel, pausing like that for a breathless moment, with the Doctor startled and unresisting under his hands. The Master checks - pleased to feel the satisfying, welcome thrill of doing something he knows he shouldn't - and then leans forward to kiss him.

The Doctor goes still in surprise, not responding for a few seconds. Then he makes a soft sound in his throat, inhales shaky and audible. His eyes fall closed and he parts his mouth a little, nudges tentatively into the contact. His hands come up, careful fingers on the back of the Master's neck, the corner of his jaw, urging him to stay. For just a moment it's gentler than either of them really expected, barely a brush of lips, an exchange of breath.

They killed each other a few hours ago, and the Master's wanted nothing more than to do this ever since. His heartsbeat stutters as he licks into the other’s mouth and is welcomed for his efforts with a quiet moan. He shoves closer, leaning his hips forward and slotting his thigh between the Doctor's legs to hold him in place against the console. He's half expecting protest at the sudden force of it, but instead the Doctor hums an enthusiastic affirmative, slides his hand round until his fingers are buried in the Master's hair tight enough to spark pain.

The sensation of it, the knowledge that he's wanted like this, even with both of them clear now on exactly who and what they are - the Master feels like he's reeling with it, the same heady, racing sensation of remembering his name. He can't catch his breath suddenly as he lets himself be pulled at, his own hands up inside the oversized leather jacket. He feels desperate, frantic with the need to sate his curiosity and drag a thousand new reactions from both of them, put his hands and his mouth and his mark all over unexplored territory.

And there are things he still needs to say - things like he's still angry; things like this doesn't mean he's forgiven anything; things like demanding to know why they're suddenly the only two left - but all of that can wait, because right now he needs the grounding, physical certainty of this more. With every touch, every rough grope and bite and glancing, soft fingertip at the corner of his mouth, he can feel himself settling, coming back to who he's supposed to be. They've always been so tangled up in each other, always defined by the steady, opposing forces of need and fury. He remembers his place in that now.

The Doctor pulls back enough to press their foreheads together, and the Master makes an annoyed sound at the interruption, pushing into him. They're both panting slightly and the Doctor keeps touching him, grabbing at his collar, his shoulders, but he won't quite bring his mouth back within reach.

"What, second thoughts?" the Master asks breathlessly, before he can think better of it. The unbidden thought comes that the other man doesn't welcome this particular reminder of who they are in quite the same way. He forces himself to stop, suddenly feeling exposed, off balance, wanting to put immediate distance between them.

"No." The Doctor holds tight to the front of his waistcoat, keeping him in place. He bumps them together again, curling a smile right against the Master's cheek. "Just enjoying the moment. Not every day someone else plays hero for me."

Surprised, the Master jerks back enough to aim a glare, letting out an offended breath. "...You really do always have to make it hostile," he accuses faintly.

And the Doctor laughs, helplessly, even as he kisses him again, so that the sound tumbles through both of them.


End file.
